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And how many times had she done so? She’d run into him a handful of times that she knew of—at Thistledown and on the streets of Wakesend—and they might have crossed paths other times without her ever knowing. Despite her thinking otherwise, perhaps those smaller finding spells she’d cast had worked after all, if not as effectively, as the one from The Book of Ribs. Even the night of the Bramble Ball, she’d cast that spell beneath the willows—Will you let me find you?—and she’d emerged from the trees to find him standing there, barefoot in the grass. Her magic might have been leading her to him all along.
“I only meant to call the book, not you,” she said quickly, wary of what his remoteness might mask. So much more must have been held beneath the surface, and he didn’t seem the sort to like exposing his vulnerabilities.
“For what purpose?” He moved no closer to her, and yet the space between them seemed to shrink as a wisp of ash plumed from his mouth, shadowing them there in the corner.
She didn’t care, pushing recklessly on. “I told you, the spellbook belonged to my mother, and she’s gone.” Her heart felt raw and bloody, as if she’d just learned of Sable’s death for the first time, only there was no disbelief any longer. Only the enduring loss.
Fia would never again see her mother’s smile or taste the breakfast cakes she made so perfectly with molasses, none of the edges burnt. She’d never again smell her mother’s wrists, the rose perfume she dabbed there an altogether different scent on Sable’s skin than on Fia’s own. She’d never again hear her mother’s voice, murmuring spells.
Saying Fia’s name.
Her eyes welled with tears. They should have been overflowing. For once, she was doing nothing to hold them back, would have welcomed the relief of their undammed fall, but her cheeks remained impossibly dry. And it felt so wrong.
Still, Sebastian must have seen the grief etched on her face. He tipped his head, offering words so hollow Fia wondered if he had a heart at all. “A shame.” He took a slow step forward, jaw tightening before he released his words like a whip. “Don’t—don’t ever—call for the book again.”
She stumbled back as if he’d struck her. Could feel his magic stirring defensively.
“It doesn’t belong to you!” she cried as he shoved past her, stalking toward the door without a backward glance.
She whirled to follow, but with a single breath, he sent a flurry of ash into her path, so thick she couldn’t see past it. The dark expulsion swirled and scattered, permeating the air. Fia fell into a coughing fit, struggling forward with a hand to her nose and mouth, her eyes forced nearly shut. After only a few steps, she bumped into a firm chest, her fingers falling against the softest coat in existence—which could only belong to Penbrook Madbury. Quickly, he pulled her from the worst of the gloom, though it spun through the whole of the shop like blackened snow, gritty and suffocating. Around them came the sounds of everyone else’s startled cries and coughs.
“Fia,” he said, his voice low and urgent, oblivious to the soot in his hair and the smear of black on his cheek. “What happened?”
“Sebastian Smith,” she choked out, eyes blurred and watery. And there was too much to explain, so she said, “He has my mother’s spellbook.”
“I’ll wrest it from him!”
“Wait—”
“I only have now,” Penbrook said dramatically, and all too truthfully, reminding her he had no promise of tomorrow.
“Then spend now with me,” she whispered.
But he was already gone, kicking up ash as he loped for the door like a cat woken from his nap. He pushed past the alarmed customers filing out of the spellshop and into the fresh air, intent on chasing someone he would never catch. Fia stumbled after, but she could hardly see through the burning in her eyes, and by the time she reached the door, he was out of sight.
“Another curse,” a voice said, and having thought everyone had gone, Fia jumped, turning to find Skye Blackwood standing across the room, surveying the damage.
“Yes,” Fia said, trying to pull herself together by dusting off her skirt before realizing it was pointless. She looked a mess, skin grimy, hair filthy, lashes clumped with dark flakes. Although there hadn’t been any flames, the spellshop seemed to hold the vestiges of a hundred fires.
Ash covered every surface—the floors, the shelves, the counter. It coated the windows in long black streaks and dusted the books and bottles and jars, probably ruining them forever. The tufted blue armchair, which always looked so inviting (if one didn’t mind a few stray cat hairs), now sat beneath a pile of dust.
Fia worried the spellshop would never be the same again.
“Don’t despair,” Skye said, followed by a murmur of words spoken too softly to hear. She waved a hand over the counter. “You just need some help.”
The smallest dusting of ash lifted into the air, swirling and swirling into nothing, cast away by some mysterious spell. Probably one Skye used after a long night at Poet’s Theory to clear the air of perfume, candle smoke, and the scent of spilled ale.
A few weeks ago, Fia might have insisted she could do everything alone. Today, she nodded, so very touched by the gentle kindness. “Thank you.”
“Goodness knows Sable would have a fit if she could see this place now.” The corner of Skye’s mouth lifted, a smile Fia almost missed spotting.
The soft expression cracked open something inside her. “I miss her.”
Leaving footprints in the dust as she went, Fia grabbed a broom from the closet, practically strangling the handle in her desperation, and began sweeping—even though all she managed to do was stir up more ash—cleaning without magic because she didn’t trust her own right then.
Don’t—don’t ever—call for the book again. Simple words that had struck her like a cursed command.
“Me too,” Skye said belatedly, and it took Fia a moment to understand. That Skye missed Sable. She caught Fia’s eye, looking for something there, and perhaps she found it, because she added, “More than you likely know.”
